The Trials and Tribulations of a Dark Lord
by Katra736
Summary: We've all heard the story of the Boy-Who-Lived. But what about the Dark Lord who didn't? What was going through his mind? Snapshots from the perspective of one Tom Marvolo Riddle.


It was quite odd, not having a body. He could still feel things, after a fashion. Pain is one thing that apparently never changes. Movement was awkward; any attempt to move like the bipedal creature he had been sent him into a chaotic spiral. Floating was much harder than it sounded, not that he'd ever given it much thought before. Circumstances being what they were, though, he regretted not asking a ghost at some point just how they managed to get around in a semi-dignified manner.

Moving was only one of his problems, of course. After all, at times when he found it too much of a bother, he could simply possess a nearby animal. They died quickly, unfortunately, and he found it rather draining. He was sure he would have an easier time of it all if he were just able to concentrate for a few moments at a time. It was a bit embarrassing (not that he would ever admit to shame), but it actually took quite some time for him to even realize he wasn't focusing. At least, he was fairly sure quite some time had passed; that was another thing he was having trouble with.

It was like there was only a small piece of him floating along in that state- but then, that was the case, wasn't it? It was amazing, the spectrum of emotions he managed to feel at the thought of his most important enchantments. Without them, he wouldn't have survived at all. But did they really have to make things so difficult?

Perhaps he should have looked into the River Styx mythology a bit more before settling on Horcruxes.

In any case, he did have one thing going for him: he knew exactly where he was going. Albania had been one of his most useful learning grounds; not only were Dark Arts practitioners prominent in certain areas, but there had been other supposed Dark Lords for him to test his mettle against. They all fell quickly, of course, and he was sure that the inhabitants remembered him and his accomplishments well. There was no reason for it to be overly difficult to find a willing servant or two, and surely no one would expect him to go there of all places.

If he could just get the hang of ghosting along, he would be able to get there in less than a decade.

xxxxxxxxxx

He was not pleased. When a purple-turbaned coward stumbled across him, he found out just how much time had passed.

Ten. Bloody. Years.

There were a few strokes of luck that served to appease him, though. After all, the idiot did work at Hogwarts, and even had some useful information. He found it a bit suspicious that Dumbledore would be bringing the Philosopher's Stone to the school this year; hadn't the Flamels done well enough guarding the damn thing for centuries before? Even he hadn't figured out where they'd been keeping it. On the other hand, the opportunity was just too good to resist. There was no way for the old man to know he was even alive, let alone planning an immediate return. That, and a certain boy would be attending that year.

If the brat had blown up any other person in the world, even one of his most loyal followers, he would have found it amusing and intriguing. As it was, he hated the child with a passion that surpassed even his hate for Dumbledore, and his (secret) love of crystallized pineapple (he didn't like to think about the coincidence that solidified his place as Slughorn's favorite no matter how useful it had been). Regardless, the boy was going to die. Slowly.

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Hogwarts had hardly changed, despite the fifty or so years since he himself had attended school. He might have felt nostalgic, if he were prone to sentimentality. And if he weren't spending every moment of his day under a stifling piece of cloth. He didn't exactly need to breathe, but the indignity of it all drove him crazy!

He was so close to accomplishing all of his goals in one fell swoop, that it was almost bearable. However, he hadn't really accounted for the ineptitude of the man he'd possessed, or for interference from a supposed ally. Of course, Severus could hardly know who really wanted the stone; keeping it from Quirrell was more a matter of common sense than anything treasonous. But then, Snape had always been difficult to read, even for him. With that allegiance uncertain, Snape became an obstacle; and unfortunately stubborn one, who was swiftly becoming more of a problem than he would have anticipated.

Part of the problem stemmed from the fact that, degrading though it was, he was forced to simplify his plans in order for Quirrell to have even a remote chance of both understanding and carrying them out. This, naturally, had the effect of Snape catching on to every single one. Never before had he been so dependent on someone so incompetent. At the height of his power, it mattered little whether or not his grunts accomplished their tasks; if nothing else, he could do it himself. Not very befitting of a Dark Lord, but at least it had been an option.

This time, though, he had to rely even more than usual upon his natural cunning, his ability to manipulate others; the problem was, he still couldn't concentrate as well as he'd like and those damn snowballs gave him a bloody headache!

xxxxxxxxxx

A mirror. All those over the top but essentially harmless obstacles (to him), and Dumbledore follows them up with a bloody mirror. Despite his irritation, he couldn't help but feel a slight appreciation for the subtlety displayed. Of course he would set out a mirror that showed the viewer's deepest desire. It would taunt him with an image of what he wanted but never let him have it. Quirrell was still mumbling under his breath about what he was seeing; clearly, he didn't understand what the mirror did.

A child's voice rang out in the antechamber. This led Quirrell into an evil monologue, as if he would have or could have done anything without _him_. There was no reason for Quirrell to sound so proud, anyway; all of his previous attempts were utter failures.

He demanded to speak to the boy, after Quirrell botched the effort to control an eleven year old. The fear in the child's eyes was even more gratifying than getting the turban off of his face. Looking quickly into his mind, he spotted an angle he could use. If the boy wanted parents, he'd offer him parents. It didn't really matter to him what he'd have to promise; he was still going to wring the boy's scrawny neck as soon as he had hands with which to do so.

Unfortunately, the boy was as stupidly noble as his parents, and a lot luckier. What kind of accidental magic was powerful enough to kill a fully-trained wizard? Not the most impressive wizard, but still.

He'd ponder this much later, after ramming his incorporeal but still very pissed off 'body' through the damnable child. It might knock him out for a couple of days, but ultimately it did nothing but release a very tiny bit of his pent up frustration.

It had not been a good year.


End file.
